Dark of the Alley
by mazarin
Summary: For a prompt: John has quite enough of Sherlock being rude at crime scenes. John tells Sherlock exactly how he's going to make it up to him. Title from Kings of Leon, Sex on Fire


The streetlights glimmer off of the wet, dark asphalt, pools of water catching the lights and lending a strange glow to the scene laid out in a dark alley in one of London's more colorful quarters, and Sherlock Holmes is on a rant.

"-and if you could overlook something so incredibly obvious, John, my God. What kind of doctors did Bart's turn out in your day, anyway? If they're like you, I fear for the NHS." Sherlock is pacing, flaring his coat dramatically around him as he turns, and Lestrade and Sally are staring at John in open-mouthed shock. That shock turns to anger, though, when Sherlock turns on them.

"It's so blindingly apparent that she had been bled after death, I'm surprised you managed to make DI, Lestrade. And Sally, well, it's not that much of a surprise, honestly. Your test scores back that up." Sally's mouth drops open and she starts gesticulating, hissing at Lestrade, "How the hell did he get into my file? My private file?"

John is standing with arms crossed, watching Sherlock swirl and strut with impassive eyes. He doesn't seem angry; but he does seem thoughtful. When Sherlock yells, "Come on, John, let's leave these imbeciles to their own devices," John simply falls into step behind him, following on his heels through the twisting maze of alleyways and pedestrian walkways toward a road with enough traffic to hail a taxi.

Around the second corner, a narrow off-shoot of a dim passageway between buildings over a hundred years old presents itself and John makes his move, shoving Sherlock hard in the side and crowding him against the wall.

"I know I'm brilliant, but really, John-"he starts, before John pins him up against the wall with a hand each on his hip and shoulder. He shoves a knee between Sherlock's legs, pressing his thigh against the front of Sherlock's trousers. His eyes are confused but intrigued, and when John leans in close, lips just barely brushing his, he lets out a soft huff of breath.

"Now listen to me, you overgrown child," John growls out, in a voice soft, and low, and coiled with pent up intent. "I could name every bone in your body twice over without drawing breath. I knew you broke your wrist when you were a child just by placing your radius between my fingers. Sally Donovan is a talented Sergeant, and Lestrade is a fucking saint, for putting up with you. These shenanigans of yours are becoming tiresome."

"John," he starts, worried at the tone he's hearing from his lover, "Surely you can't think-"

"Shut up, or I'll give you something else to do with that mouth." Sherlock closes his mouth immediately, watching John carefully, a tiny, disbelieving lift of a smirk along the corner of his mouth. "For that little humiliating display out there, I think you owe me." His hand slides over to cup Sherlock through his trousers. "Oh yes. If you think my medical skills aren't up to snuff, well, then we're going to get a taxi and go home, and I'll show you exactly what I am good for."

The brickwork is unyielding, and John isn't letting go. He slides to the side slightly, right arm wrapping around Sherlock's waist and left still on his trousers.

"I think you can start your penance by stripping, in front of my chair, in the middle of the sitting room. I'll be watching, so make it nice." He gives Sherlock's rapidly-hardening cock a little squeeze, and Sherlock almost doubles over, the shock of the caress flooding him with arousal. "Then we'll take that gorgeous body to the couch, have you kneel down with your head on the backrest so you're nice and open for me."

Sherlock's breathing rapidly now, eyes wide and fixed on John's face, tongue swiping at his bottom lip and sharp white teeth biting down in a show of impatience that has John smiling dangerously.

"I think I'll start with my fingers, just slowly, sliding, just a little at a time, keeping you primed and ready for me. No touching yourself, either. I want you to feel how I know you, how I know your body, how it _speaks_ to me. Your eyelashes flutter, when you're lost in it, that brain of yours unable to think of anything but me and what I can do to you." John's voice is dark, dripping with sex and arousal, and Sherlock wonders if this peak, this precipice of wanting, will ever end, or if he'll just be left hovering, aching and taut.

"It's easy for me, you know, to keep you there, on brink of coming, until you're gagging for my cock." John presses a little kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, and he shivers at the very _idea_ of it. "Because then I'm going to fuck you, deep and slow, until you beg me to let you come. And don't plan on going anywhere for a while. Because once we're done, I'm taking you to the shower where we're going to do it all over again. As far as I'm concerned, you aren't going anywhere but the bedroom or the shower for the next 24 hours. Then we'll see how talented I am, then, won't we?"

Sherlock moans and looks shell-shocked, eyes drooping closed, mouth slack and open. He tries to lean forward for a kiss when John suddenly drops his hands, spins on his heel and walks away, leaving Sherlock hard and aching, sliding down the wall to rest on his haunches. When his brain slips back into gear a few minutes later, he realizes he realizes he's still crouched in a dirty alleyway and leaps to his feet, making a mad dash for home, hoping John didn't get there too far ahead of him and wondering if he likes shirt or shoes off first.


End file.
